To Torture an Elf-Prince
by Crescent Moon Dancer
Summary: In which Thranduil tries to find a suitable minstrel to entertain at his feast, and fails utterly. (Rated T for brief but explicit mentions of violence.)


**Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any of the characters therefrom. If I did, Peter Jackson would have been tarred and feathered, drawn and quartered, and taken to the edge of the world and dropped off.**

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 _Legolas doubled over as the man's fist - clenched tightly around a sizable rock - drove into his stomach. He coughed, blood falling from his lips and spattering on the stony ground beneath him, before raising his eyes to face his captor. Defiance shone out of his blood-streaked face, and hatred boiled in his veins.  
_

 _"You will never obtain what you seek," he spat, a trickle of blood running down his chin. "No elf will ever tell you where it is - and that includes me!" The man laughed, rubbing his knuckles._

 _"My dear elf-prince, you don't understand, do you? I no longer seek the eighth palantir; I no longer_ need _the eighth palantir. In capturing you, I have all I need to obtain what I truly desire." Despite his pain, Legolas managed something close to a snarl._

 _"And what is that?" The man leered at him._

 _"Revenge."_

 _A cry of agony escaped the golden-haired elf's lips as his captor grabbed a many-thonged whip and brought it slicing down across his shoulders. If it weren't for the hard hands keeping a cruelly tight hold on his arms, he would have collapsed. As it was, all he could do was duck his head, protecting his face as the merciless lash came down again and again-_

"ENOUGH!"

Silence fell in the hall as the story teller - a young elleth of astonishing beauty, even for her race - paused her narration, looking nervous. Thranduil leveled a glare at her, and she gulped, taking the hint at once and rolling up her alarmingly lengthy parchment before hastening from the room. The Elven king sank back on his throne, trying in vain to loosen his death grip on the arm rests thereof before his nails left dents in them.

" _What_ is their fascination with it?" he muttered, addressing the question to his son, who stood rigidly beside the throne, hands clasped behind his back, and looking like he was carved of stone.

Legolas shifted slightly, allowing his expressionless gaze to sweep the gathering of elves that filled the hall. "I do not know," he murmured in response. "But it is...disconcerting...to say the least."

Thranduil gave vent to a very un-kingly snort, plucking a splinter from under his fingernail. "Disconcerting, indeed," he growled. "They are evil, twisted tales with not a grain of truth in them. And they are all the same." He leaned forward, glowering darkly at the convention beneath him. "I have no doubt that, had that last one been allowed to continue, you would inevitably have been rescued by, fallen in love with, and wedded to some elleth of entirely implausible perfection." Legolas grimaced.

"Aye," he agreed. "Or perhaps I might have perished in her arms on some moonlit stream bank."

His father groaned loudly and covered his face, ignoring the anxious looks several denizens threw his way. "I fail to see what appeal they think these wild stories have," he said, his voice muffled somewhat by his hands. "They are certainly inappropriate entertainment for our feast. It is a celebration! A time for rejoicing the passing of winter! We should be enjoying songs and poems dedicated to the beauty of spring. Not regaled with harrowing tales of my son being relentlessly tortured!"

"They're not all about me," the prince pointed out, smiling in spite of himself. "Don't you remember that one from earlier, about Celebrian the Second, secret sister of Arwen Evenstar?" Thranduil groaned again, dropping his hands to his lap.

"And her sufferings at the hands of her abusive adopted parents for years before she ran away, almost perished in the wild, found you wounded, nursed you back to health, fell in love with you, had her love not returned, and finally staggered to her true home before she herself died? Yes." The king's head thumped against the back of his throne. "I remember." He scowled up at the high vaulted ceiling. "How could I forget it?" Legolas managed a strained chuckle.

"It is a wonder it has not faded into ambiguity among all the other tales we have heard this day," he said, resisting the urge to massage his temples.

His father exhibited no such restraint.

"I remember that one specifically, because it was then that I decided I would not even let the teller of another such tale finish if it was as bad," he grumbled.

"I must confess, I am relieved at your decision," Legolas admitted. "Although I fear the same cannot be said for our...guests." Thranduil snorted again.

"I care nothing for their feelings and desires," he snapped. "After subjecting us to such verbal torture these hours past, they are fortunate indeed that I have not ordered them all beheaded!" The prince could not help the incredulous laugh that bubbled out of him.

"Your own people, Father!"

"They are none of mine," the Mirkwood king retorted. "Nor do they hail from the other fair Elven realms of Middle Earth. They all seem to be from some...other world, outside of Arda. The question is, where?"

"The question," Legolas countered, resuming his stony posture, "is how did they get here..."

"...and how, by the blessed Valar, do we get rid of them?" his father finished.

The two royal Elves looked out at the convocation thronging the hall. Almost all of them were startlingly beautiful elf-maidens, all of whom were carrying scrolls, leather-bound books, multiple rolls of parchment - Legolas even spotted some thin tablets of slate neatly stacked by one raven-haired elleth - and all of whom were hoping to be chosen as Mirkwood's new resident Teller of Tales and Singer of Songs. The choice was a difficult one; all the maidens had voices of such beauty that they were rivaled only by each other, so it was impossible to select one via singing competition.

It was equally onerous to try and choose by the tales they told. More so, in a way - at least the songs they sang were traditional elf ballads that had been treasured for millennia by the Eldar race. The stories, on the other hand...

"It is impossible to know whether or not there are any here who have a decent offering," Thranduil griped. "If we must continue to go through them all, one by one, we shall be sitting here 'til _next_ spring!" He propped his chin on his cupped hand, glowering sullenly at the cheerfully conversing crowd, who did not seem at all perturbed by the king's dark mood.

"They seem to be of one mind," Legolas mused. "They all have the same theme running through their compositions: Love for me, or certain death for me. Torture, either way." He thoughtfully dented his chin with one long, slender finger. "If we could get rid of all those with such tales, perhaps there would be one or two left with something better to offer."

His father sat up straighter, looking more alert. "Iluvatar bless you, my son!" he exclaimed. "That is a wonderful idea!" Rising from his throne, he cleared his throat and, with one quick word, commanded the attention of everyone present.

Silence fell once more, and a sea of hopeful faces turned towards the king.

Thranduil put on his sternest expression, and his voice boomed out majestically, filling every corner of the hall. ( _'I wonder how he does that,'_ Legolas thought enviously.)

"Hark unto me," the king ordered, too mentally frazzled to bother with being diplomatic - or even civil. "If there is any present whose story, or poem, or song is at all similar to the last one we heard, you may as well depart at once." There was an uneasy murmuring as the assembly shifted, making inquiries of each other in low voices. None of them could remember what the last narration was.

The Elven king sighed heavily. "Anyone who wrote a tale where my son is tortured to the brink of death or falls in love with the person who wrote said tale, leave! And should you darken my gates again, I will not hesitate to order you slain!"

Legolas picked himself up from the floor, where he had been blown over by the Gust of Departing Minstrels, and stared around the almost deserted hall. "Well. That appears to have been most effective," he remarked.

Thranduil didn't answer, merely straightening his robes, resettling himself on his throne, and leveling a steely gaze at the one remaining elleth who sat at the long table. She had surprisingly flyaway hair, and she was also uncharacteristically plump; in fact, if not for her height and delicately pointed ears, the king would have opined that she was not one of the fair race at all.

It took her a moment to realize that she was the only one left, but when she noticed the absence of all the other precocious females and their nauseating compositions, she bounded out of her seat, positively beaming. "My turn?" she asked eagerly. The king merely blinked, which she took to be an acquiescence. She took a moment to tune her small wooden harp before speedily launching into a song, delivering it at such a pace that it made Thranduil's ears buzz.

 _"Legolas Greenleaf was strolling in the woods._

 _He was gorgeous and handsome; in fact, he looked good!_

 _Then he tripped on a root and fell with a cry._

 _He stoically stated, 'I fear I shall die._

 _Alas that I should perish in pain and alone,_

 _With nary a companion and so far from home._

 _Alas that I should perish alone and in pain,_

 _And never shall see my one true love again._

 _Her eyes are like diamonds, the sun's on her hair,_

 _Never have I beheld an elf-maiden so fair._

 _But now we are parted, and I feel quite bereaved._

 _Perhaps when she hears of my death, she shall grieve._

 _But still at this moment, solitude is mine,_

 _A broken branch through my body and my life on the line-"_

"Stop! Cease!" The king leaped to his feet, his face thunderous. Behind him, Legolas was staring at her with an expression that defied accurate description - something like a combination of horrified fascination, outraged indignation, blatant incredulity, and flat-out revulsion, all mixing together beneath the mask of cool dignity that he struggled to maintain.

Thranduil pointed an incensed finger at the culprit. "Take her to the dungeons!" he shrieked. "Lock her in the highest tower and feed her on bread and watered down wine for a week! Sling her in the enchanted river! I don't care what you do, but I don't ever want to see her Melkor-cursed face again!" The guards scrambled to obey, none of them keen to stay in the room with their king at the moment. He looked quite deranged.

The Elf prince stepped forward, massaging his father's shoulders soothingly as he sank back on his throne with a despairing groan. "Calm yourself, Father," he murmured, squeezing the tense muscles. "She will be properly disposed of."

Thranduil rubbed a weary hand across his eyes. "I suppose," he said at length, "I shall have to send a messenger to Imladris and see if Lord Elrond can spare Lindir for a few weeks."

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 **And so, what was meant to be a Legolas-whump parody, turned out to be...well, not. XD But I had way too much fun writing it anyway, so I hope y'all enjoyed it too. ^_^ Reviews would make my day - just sayin'. ;)**


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